


For the dancing and the dreaming

by southernfrost



Category: The Mandalorian (TV)
Genre: Angst, But Only a Little Bit - Freeform, Din has a couple vaguely sexy or violent thoughts (separate thoughts), Din is a Thinker not a Talker, Din's perspective, F/M, Female Reader, Fluff, One Shot, Pining, Slow Dancing, Touch-Starved, Unrequited Crush, but not really thank god, in this household we do not say kriff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-04
Updated: 2020-03-04
Packaged: 2021-02-28 16:55:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,010
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23010577
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/southernfrost/pseuds/southernfrost
Summary: One time, while the Crest was docked on Rodia, you had asked for him to hold up a piece of the ship’s outer hull while you re-welded it to the frame. As Din walked around you, you stuck a leg out and tripped him, his beskar helmet hitting the landing gear of the ship with a comically loud ping. His minor concussion was the last thing on his mind as you writhed on the ground next to where he fell, your body wrapped in on itself as you wheezed and laughed so hard tears came out of your eyes. And then Din’s heart simultaneously fluttered and stopped dead in its tracks when you composed yourself and crawled over to him on your hands and knees, apologizing in that soft tone he liked so much as you wiped your eyes and asked if he was alright.Din thought about that memory a lot, as well as the time he comforted you in jest when the baby sneezed all over your face, when you squealed under the ice cold water of the Crest’s shower and he couldn’t help but laugh loud enough for you to hear it, and the time he let you paint his nails with a bit of the silver hull paint. He wasn’t keen on the idea, but being so close to you was… intoxicating. Almost as much as, if not more than, the paint fumes.
Relationships: The Mandalorian (The Mandalorian TV)/Original Female Character(s), The Mandalorian (The Mandalorian TV)/Reader, The Mandalorian (The Mandalorian TV)/You
Comments: 11
Kudos: 201





	For the dancing and the dreaming

**Author's Note:**

> This one goes out to my homies on Twitter (I'm @sarahdjarin btw, check me out). What was meant to be a quick fic about the reader showing Din how to dance turned into *reads notes* 7k of fluff. You love to see it.
> 
> While this is a one shot, I'm not entirely opposed to writing more. I like this reader, she's cool. Let me know what you think guys. 🥺

In the vast vacuum of space, it felt like one was in a state of unending desynchronosis. The constant hum of the Razor Crest’s yellow lights were a poor substitution for a proper day and night cycle. Stopping on Planet A at midday and going to Planet B to find it was the middle of the night was a daily occurrence. Or, at least as common as days could be when one’s sense of time was as out of sorts as Din’s. As natural as bounty hunting came to a Mandalorian, he was only human and he knew this wasn’t good for him. He couldn’t remember the last time he felt truly rested... But he was used to it.

What he wasn’t used to was travelling with others, namely you and his infant foundling. You two weren't used to his lifestyle either.

Din had been on the run with the kid for about half of a standard year at this point. After Nevarro, after losing Kuiil and IG-11 -- and nearly himself, for that matter --, he had asked Cara to recommend someone he could hire as a crew member. He didn’t know what he was expecting, but he knew that he couldn’t continue taking bounty pucks, be a good dad for the kid, and be his own mechanic (for his ship or his body, really) all at the same time. He knew you were iffy about taking such an odd job, and who wouldn’t be?, but Cara insisted that you meet him before saying no. “This one is something else,” she had said, in reference to you. Cara had smirked at Din then, as they sat in the makeshift cantina on Nevarro waiting for you to join them.

Cara was right, too. Din was surprised you said yes; you were an exceptionally good mechanic (it was honestly overkill to have someone like you on crew to maintain a single ship, even one in such poor of health as the Crest), Din saw the adoring look in your eyes when you first saw his ad'ika -- even as you were hedging that look by saying you weren’t a big fan of kids --, and you could use a blaster and defend yourself, among other things. As Cara walked the three of you back to the Crest, the two women had talked about their time in service to the Rebellion, and how you were a dingy mechanic during the day but the military basecamp’s entertainment at night. Cara’s face was red at the memory, which only made Din more curious. Even on that very first day, while he went through the laundry list of buttons and switches to get the Crest into space, you were mindlessly explaining shield generator capacitors to the baby with a gentle sparkle in your eyes like you had been doing this for years. You were the perfect crew member, but…

If anything, in hindsight, Din was disappointed when Kuiil had turned down his offer of a job. He understood and respected the Ugnaught’s decision to remain free, but the idea of having a crew that Din could form coherent thoughts around was something to be envious of. No offense to Kuiil. Your expertise in your craft was one thing, but Din hadn’t expected you to be so… Funny, thoughtful, smart, genuine, and most of all, cute. You were adorable, graceful, attractive in everything you did, even on that first day when you met him covered in oil from your previous job. He could hardly look at you without his face getting hot underneath his helmet, and even though you couldn’t see how flustered you made him, he would flounder all the same. And Din really needed the full use of his mental capabilities at that time, or at least as much as he could muster. He was running on fumes.

With everything that happened on Nevarro, the child hadn’t slept soundly in weeks. He could hardly sleep for an hour or so without being awoken by shrieks and cries coming from the kid in his pram. That was the main catalyst for Din reaching out to Cara to find you. So when you first joined, after meeting with you and Cara on Nevarro and getting the Crest into space, Din was exhausted beyond belief and splayed out weakly in his pilot’s chair. He watched you settle in to the spare cargo cubby hole that was to serve as your room, just across from the cockpit and above the only proper sleeping quarters on the ship -- the one that Din hardly got the chance to use properly. The stars in the window behind him moved slowly as the three of you sauntered leisurely through space. He remembered hearing a faint sigh as you leaned down to pat at the admittedly thin foam pad that was to serve as your bedding. (He made a mental note to get you something better.) You didn’t have much to put away, which was good, considering how little space Din had to give you.

“Mando!” Your exclamation made him realize his heavy eyelids had fallen shut. “Is that how you sleep?” You giggled at him as you walked out.

“I have a bed,” Din huffed.

“Oh yeah? It doesn’t seem like you use it.”

Din gestured at the kid in his pram with a roll of his wrist. “It’s not easy with the baby keeping me up.”

Your eyes softened with something Din couldn’t quite place, and he remembered the heat dusting his cheeks with the way you looked at him. You quickly turned to the kid, and Din was grateful to be out of your view so he could breathe. In hindsight, it was laughable how quickly you had Din under your spell.

You poked at the kid’s chubby cheeks, earning a content chirp. “I’m assuming you’re feeding him, changing his diapers, keeping him clean, and uh…”

After Din didn’t give a reply, you looked back at him to find that he had responded with an incredulous tilt of his head. 

“You’re a big boy, use your words.” This was the first time you had said that to him, and in the months that followed, Din noticed that you said this a lot. It got on his nerves, but that only seemed to make you say it more.

He had closed his eyes to calm his temper, but his mouth betrayed a playful smile. “Of course I do those things.”

“Just thought I’d make sure.” You smiled innocently back at him before turning back to the kid, whose light, cheerful babble was in contrast to his adopted father’s dark and dramatic pose which took up nearly the entire cockpit. “Does he have a set schedule?”

“Not really,” Din responded flatly after a moment of silence. “He sleeps when he’s tired, he cries when he needs something else.”

“Babies need a schedule, a rhythm.” You checked the chronometer on your wrist before turning back to the kid. “It’s 22:00-ish in my home city, so that’s good enough. We’re getting you to sleep.”

Din watched as you pulled the kid up and out of the pram, all wrapped in blankets against your hip, and was about to sarcastically wish you good luck before it stuck in his throat. 

You had held your free hand out to him.

The blood rushing through his ears was almost unbearable. He was on his feet before his mind could catch up, having not taken you up on your offer.

You mouthed ‘OK’ around an awkward smile before rolling your eyes and pulling your hand back, using it to grab the data pad on your utility belt. As you fiddled with the pad and held the child against your hip, Din stepped back slowly until the back of his knee bumped into the seat of his chair. This cockpit was suddenly too small, and too warm. He looked back at you, at the way you leaned against the doorframe just a tiny bit, at the way your fingers threaded through the baby’s tunic, and he remembers wondering what the hell he’d gotten himself into.

“Here,” you said, pushing the pad and kid into his arms. His ad'ika beamed at him, raising his ears with a coo as you continued to speak. “I pulled up a video the baby might like. Just hold him and watch it with him for a while, until he sleeps.”

Din cocked his head again, not sure if he heard you right. “I’m not going to sleep, we just--”

“It’ll be fine,” you interrupted. “And the baby might sleep better with you.”

“I can’t do that, I have to--”

“You have to sleep.” You looked at him sternly. Too sternly. Din knew his effect on people was generally fear or intimidation, or at the very least curiosity. You didn’t seem scared of him at all and you hadn’t pestered him with questions about his creed. Did you know how dangerous he was? You either didn’t know or you were seeing right through his armor, both options being out of Din’s comfort zone.

The rap of a knuckle on his pauldron pulled him away from his thoughts “Are you listening to me, Mando? I’m just trying to help.” You spoke softly, only just more than a murmur, which caused the tension in Din’s shoulders to ease. You continued with a boast but kept your voice low. “I’m your expert crew. You should trust me.”

Truthfully, he hadn’t been listening and he didn’t trust you (just yet), but he wasn’t about to say that. He didn’t want to make you upset. He rather liked the way your voice sounded when you talked to him like this. Ever the talker himself, he kept his response short. “I know.”

Your eyes flickered between your fidgeting hands and Din’s visor, the two of you standing like that for what felt like forever, but was really only a brief pause. His right hand twitched ever so slightly when you cupped your mouth to hide a yawn.

You flashed a tired smile before you twirled towards your room on your tiptoes. You practically sang, “Good night, Mando.”

Good night? Din had not been planet-side for longer than a few weeks since he started his, what you could call, career as a solo bounty hunter in earnest about 15 years ago. He was of course accustomed to wishing people good night or morning, but never in space. He’d never had anyone to wish a good.... anything to out here. It was far too lonely, but that’s not to say Din was lonely, he was just.... 

And by the time that he was back in the moment there with you, ready to wish you a good night on your first night on the ship with him, you had already closed your door. It disappointed him more than he could admit (even to himself).

Luckily for Din, every single one of your suggestions proved to be wildly successful. The video you had queued on your data pad was of a couple dancing to some catchy, upbeat tune in a language he didn’t recognize -- which he would later learn was Paldese, your native tongue--, and the kid insisted on watching the video on repeat dozens of times that first “night”. The kid had eventually fallen into a deep, happy sleep in the crook of Din’s arm. Din had slept in his full armor that night, to avoid jostling the baby awake, but even he had gotten an incredibly peaceful five hours after all was said and done. With the imposition of a schedule, Din suffered through the dancing video like clockwork, but the blissfulness of regular sleep was worth every second.

It was… different, life with you and the kid. Different in the best possible way. As the months went on, you had only become more comfortable in your bossy attitude and quips at him, but Din didn’t mind. The jokes at his expense were worth hearing you laugh. 

One time, while the Crest was docked on Rodia, you had asked for him to hold up a piece of the ship’s outer hull while you re-welded it to the frame. As Din walked around you, you stuck a leg out and tripped him, his beskar helmet hitting the landing gear of the ship with a comically loud ping. His minor concussion was the last thing on his mind as you writhed on the ground next to where he fell, your body wrapped in on itself as you wheezed and laughed so hard tears came out of your eyes. And then Din’s heart simultaneously fluttered and stopped dead in its tracks when you composed yourself and crawled over to him on your hands and knees, apologizing in that soft tone he liked so much as you wiped your eyes and asked if he was alright.

Din thought about that memory a lot, as well as the time he comforted you in jest when the baby sneezed all over your face, when you squealed under the ice cold water of the Crest’s shower and he couldn’t help but laugh loud enough for you to hear it, and the time he let you paint his nails with a bit of the silver hull paint. He wasn’t keen on the idea, but being so close to you was… intoxicating. Almost as much as, if not more than, the paint fumes.

Din was not the most experienced flirt, but he did his damnedest at first to try to make it obvious that there was… something more to you that he wanted to know better. He felt like a teenage boy again; every interaction with you was like wildfire on his skin and taxed his body as if he’d ran a marathon. But it never seemed like you noticed, and he couldn’t help but feel like a fool. Din wasn’t the best conversationalist either, but he was a fantastic listener. He’d taken mental notes of all of your favorite things, and when he bought soap scented with your favorite flowers and washed your bedroll, or made a real home cooked meal with your favorite spice from home, or any of the other things he did out of this indescribable emotion bursting from his chest, you smiled but never seemed to… You weren’t... Din didn’t know what he expected from you. He wanted more, but it seemed like you didn’t.

Yes, a million times yes, Din was happy to have you... as his crew member, he supposed. Any time with you was better than when he was out on a job, even if he couldn’t be as close to you as he wanted. The kid adored you, and you seemed happy, too. 

He could hear you at night, the pads of your bare feet echoing off the hollow metal above his head. He had your data pad with him and the kid in his bunk, so you were dancing alone to music playing in your head every night. Din had never been much of a music or dancing or frilly-fun-things-like-that person (no Mandalorian was, as far as he knew), and he had told you as much when you first joined him. He wondered if you intentionally hid your dancing, like you didn’t want to include him… Din tried to not think about his and your situation like that. You didn’t owe him anything beyond what he paid you for, after all. 

But, even if he wasn’t thinking about it, he noticed that you never talked about your dancing with him. Perhaps it was in some attempt to not bore a warrior of his caliber with the details of fine arts, but little did you know, you could never bore him. Din would imagine sitting with you cross-legged on the floor, writing out all of your favorite songs on pieces of paper. One by one, he imagined that you two would pick a song at random, and you would dance for him as he laid back with the kid, maybe even get to hear you sing. It was a self-indulgent dream that Din tried to not dwell on often. But perhaps, if it ever came up in conversation, he could listen to the music that played in your head when you danced. Out of stubbornness or shyness, or something equally stupid, he never asked about any of it. 

Every night when he would start the dancing video for the baby, Din would watch carefully even though it was burned into his retinas. This was your video, after all. The dancers twirled and shook and slid to the music, and it was nearly therapeutic, if it wasn’t also so terribly familiar to him after watching it literally thousands of times. Despite the number of times Din had hit the repeat button on your data pad for this cursed video, he would find himself tapping his foot on the metal hull of the ship to the tune. He had grown bold over the months he spent with you and the child, and hoped beyond a hope that you were listening to him when he danced too.

  
  
  


On this “morning”, the kid began the day like most other days: by shrieking or slapping Din’s neck with a slobbery three-fingered hand. He could sleep without the helmet, since the baby was his adiik, but Din learned the hard way that the kid was not opposed to shoving his spit-covered fingers wherever they fit. So, for Din’s sanity and beauty rest, he kept the helmet on.

Din set the baby down on his cot as he went to wake you up and give you back your data pad, as he always did. And as always, he hesitated for a moment as he watched the gentle rise and fall of your chest, before tapping your shin with his foot.

You pulled your face away from your den of blankets, which Din had practically filled your room with to help you sleep better, and smiled up at him. “G’morning, Mando.”

The blackness of space reflected on his helmet like a shadow, but the smile underneath was bright and warm. “Good morning.”

You squirmed in your blankets, your toes nearly brushing his wool socks before you reached the apex of your stretch and sighed. You sat up and held out your hands expectantly, until Din gingerly took hold of your forearms and pulled you out of your soft nest.

As with any morning on the Crest, it was a delicately orchestrated tried-and-true dialogue between the two of you. A touch here, a joke there, a sigh or gentle puff of static through a voice modulator. A step out of line wasn’t illegal or anything serious like that, but… Din wasn’t sure how to act around you outside of this routine you two had happened to fall in to. He didn’t want to push things, to make you uncomfortable. You were always so nice to him and he didn’t want to take advantage of that kindness.

After everyone was awake, Din would do whatever bit of piloting needed to be done -- in this case, on this day, land the Crest in a nondescript shipyard in the jungles of Eriadu -- and then he would cook breakfast for everyone while you idly chatted to the baby. He watched you and the baby eat while the two of you stated your plans for the day, whether it was a bounty, taking this or that apart on the Crest to fix some capacitor or array, an information hunt for the kid, or just a quick jaunt in a market for spare parts or exotic foods. 

Today it was the latter, much to your delight.

As you got ready for the day up in the cockpit, Din scarfed down bites of his own breakfast in-between putting on pieces of his armor. He had been here before, to Leun, a hidden smuggler’s city tucked in the wilds. The city was heavily guarded by a cartel of rich merchants who called this place home, and the markets were as lively and diverse and secure as one could find out here in the Outer Rim. It would be a safe place to get out, stretch, and maybe even have a good time.

You stomped once at the top of the ladder. “You decent down there?”

Din found that his hands had slowed down in his thoughts, and quickly shoveled the rest of his food into his cheeks before pulling his helmet back on. He choked the unchewed eggs and peppers down his throat, muffling a weak, “All clear.”

You hopped down into the cargo hold like a loth cat, silent and graceful. Din’s eyes looked over you almost on their own, as if he couldn’t stop himself. Your long hair pulled back into a messy bun, the freckles on your shoulders and arms peeking through the sheer sleeves of your blouse, your skirt giving way to the smooth expanse of your bare thighs --

You bent your head down to meet his visor’s gaze, a laugh bubbling from the lips that were caught in your teeth. “Your big boy words, Mando…,” you gently chided.

Din had to fight back the urge to clear his throat as he turned his attention back to fastening his pauldrons. He was supposed to be honorable, for Maker’s sake. Din thanked his lucky stars that you gave him mercy and didn’t comment further on his stare. Shit, he really hoped you weren’t uncomfortable now. You seemed fine though... His thoughts were racing even faster than when he was looking at you; the way you looked at him, your eyes crinkling from smiling so widely, knowing that he was looking at you, and-- and you weren’t upset? Again, you seemed totally fine? And what ‘big boy words’ did you want him to use--?

He really had to stop thinking so much. He was going to give himself an aneurysm trying to figure you out.

“Let’s go,” Din called out as he opened the hatch and set security protocols with his vambrace. You clamored up to his side almost immediately, with one hand wrapped along the kid’s bottom and the other snaking through the crook of Din’s elbow.

It took everything in him to not melt in that moment, and every moment afterwards. As the three of you walked out of the shipyards and towards the markets, you kept your grip on his arm tight and he did his absolute best to not overthink the gesture and just enjoy himself. When your arm holding the child became visibly tired and Din reached in to take the bundle, his gloved hand brushed the side of your ribs and he sucked in a breath when he could have sworn you leaned into the touch.

Don’t think too much, just have a good time.

When you entered the food area of the markets, and came across a stand that sold massive jellied tauntaun eyeballs, you squirmed, hiding under his arm. Din idly hoped that you would stay there, that he could have his arm on your shoulders as you strolled. But you quickly ducked away, hiding your face from him. The blush on his cheeks only heated up at your sudden shyness.

Don’t think too much, Din.

By the time you and Din were fairly exhausted from all the shopping, flirting, and the ever-present moist heat of the jungle, he rented a small cart to haul back all of the various ship parts, tools, cloth, ammunition, household goods, and consumables the three of you had bought. It was still daylight, but your chronometer had beeped a good hour ago, warning you all that it was getting late as far as your internal clocks were concerned. The cart was fairly heavy, especially with you and the child laying on it and staring up at the colorful and bright canopy above your heads, but Din pushed it along the streets back towards the shipyards with an easy smile playing on his lips all the same.

When you two finished unloading the cart, Din closed up the Crest for the “night” and started the auxiliary engine just to get the climate controls going. The cool, dry recycled air coming out of the vents was a welcome comfort, with Din mindlessly pulling his cape away from his neck for a moment to let the air travel between his heavy layers.

“Uh, Mando?”

Din jumped out of his skin at your voice and nearly strained his muscles to stop his body from dramatically flattening itself to the wall. On the surface though, he seemed as collected as ever as he put the cloth back on his neck and held his hand over his feverish skin. “Yeah?”

You gestured to your utility belt, to the empty holster where your data pad usually sat. “Um….”

A pause, but then he realized what happened. “Shit,” Din sighed, the hand on his neck now serving to support his head as he leaned into it. 

You seemed embarrassed, maybe even anxious, as you explained yourself. “I didn’t even notice. I’m sorry.”

“What? Don’t be sorry…” Din wanted to say more, but it caught in his throat. Sure, your data pad being stolen was kind of shitty, but what made his blood boil was the fact that he didn’t even realize someone had gotten close enough to you to steal something off your belt. He had let his guard down too much, and let himself be distracted. You could have been seriously hurt and it was his fault. He wanted to punch the wall, but the last thing he wanted was to frighten you. Or make you fix the dented hull panel. He sighed again, letting his hand fall from his neck lazily. “I should have been watching you more closely. I’m the one who’s sorry.”

Your blank, apologetic face quickly turned up into a shy blushing smile. “Hmm… I think you watched me plenty close, Mando.”

It was as if Din’s brain short circuited and shut down. You had called him out twice now today, held his arm in the markets like the two of you were some sort of... pair? (Was he allowed to say that?), touched him so so much-- This was all more than he was emotionally equipped to handle, honestly. He quickly scrounged his empty helmet for any coherent, relevant thoughts before the blood rushing to his face killed him.

“We’ll need another data pad for the kid. I’ll go back out to the market,” Din rasped. He pried himself off the wall and began to move towards the closed bay door, but a hand pulling on his own stopped him dead in his tracks.

“No…” you started, facing his boots. You looked up at him through your lashes and it surprised him to find you so red. “No, we don’t need the data pad.”

This was the cherry on top of the sundae that was your unscripted touches. Din was undone, unraveled, broken under your tender gaze and warm touch. His hand suddenly ached, the heat from yours seeping through his gloves and straight into his bloodstream, and the only reprieve that felt right was to squeeze. He did so gently, carefully… as if to protect this blessed moment from shattering under his fingertips.

“W-we don’t?” he asked with an uncharacteristic stammer, his mouth suddenly parched.

Hearing and feeling Din’s reaction to your bold and admittedly uncalculated moves gave you the confidence to look at him fully, to take his other hand in yours as well, and to pull him to the middle of the cargo hold. He did so willingly, more than willingly, giving you the reins.

You began to trip over the words spilling out of your mouth at the velocity of a snail, which was very unlike you. “I know you don’t, uh... We could try... Do you want to...?”

Din was anything but frustrated with you, standing here in the middle of his ship with your hands in his and clutched to his chest, his ribs surely getting bruised from the jackhammering of his heart. However, his patience was uncharacteristically thin at the moment, wanting everything you were willing to give as soon as you were comfortable letting him have it, and so he embarrassed himself by squeaking out, “What is it?”

“We could dance like in the video,” you quickly blurted, as if you were thankful for him releasing you from your stammering torment. Din felt you tug at your hands slightly as you hedged your idea, but he didn’t let go. “I know you don’t like that stuff though, I just… I just thought it would be fun. T-to dance with you.”

Din was generally one to think over his words carefully before he spoke, making sure he was getting the right intentions across. He had learned early on in his training with the Mandalorians that silence was a powerful tool, and it became a tool he was expertly acquainted with. But with you, it seemed like Din couldn’t stop unfiltered words from tumbling out of his, well, voice filter. 

“Dancing? Th-that sounds nice.”

The way your eyes lit up, the way your tongue peeked out from your wide toothy smile, the way your arms trembled when you squeezed his hands as tight as you could… Din couldn’t breathe all the sudden, and he found himself on unsteady legs.

While Din was letting this all sink in, you were checking over your shoulder that the baby was laying down on his cot and looking at the two of you. Then, you loosely lined your feet up with his for the first steps of the dance.

“Alright, so put your hand here…” You pulled one of his hands down to the high waist of your skirt and, with the other, stretched yours and Din’s arms out to a point. Your voice was steadier now than before, and he realized you were teaching him the steps. 

Din all the sudden remembered that he couldn’t dance and that he was about to make a terrible fool out of himself. 

As you continued your quick rundown of the dance with you teaching him the man’s steps, a small part of Din wanted to retreat to the cold, solitary comfort of the cockpit. But his pounding head, his fluttering heart, the butterflies in his gut, his feverish skin, his chapped lips, and practically everything else rattling around inside his armor ordered him to stay. You had him there, and despite everything that Din was -- a Mandalorian, a cold-hearted bounty hunter, a murderer even -- he really wanted to know what you felt like in his arms. Were you as every bit as soft, warm, and inviting as you were in his dreams? The idea that Din could have that knowledge in real life was tearing him apart at the seams.

“Do you have the steps down?” you asked, the excitement obvious in your voice. “I’ll start singing once you say yes.”

“In that case, uh...” Din said breathlessly, buying himself a brief moment in an attempt to prevent a heart attack.

You flustered, mistaking his need for a break as unsteady hesitation. “Mando, you-- you don’t have to dance with me if you don’t want to. I’m sorry, I--”

“No, no no,” he murmured. Of its own accord, the hand he had on your shoulder found its way to your jaw, his thumb mindlessly tracing your cheekbone. Din would have been stunned into silence by his own body’s involuntary betrayal, but the way your eyes had watered from just the idea that he didn’t want to be here with you… It had him running on pure instinct, an instinct he didn’t know he had. 

“I don’t dance, you know that,” he started, and then subsequently paused as he searched for the right words, which made a strangled sound come out of your chest. Din immediately wanted to kick himself; that wasn’t what he should have said, this is why he needed to remember to think before he started running his mouth. Before he got too wrapped up in punishing himself in his head, he nearly bit his tongue as he quickly finished his thought, “B-but I want to! I want to. I want to dance with you.”

“Fuck’s sake, Mando,” you whimpered weakly, pushing him away but keeping your grip on his shoulders tight. You pulled him back in after a second, but even closer, until your chest was pressed against Din’s cool beskar and your hands clasped a hair's-width away from the nape of his neck. It wasn’t a tight, flush press or anything scandalous like that, but he was rigid as a board regardless. He had been overwhelmed a hundred times over today, and it appeared that you weren’t done shocking his system quite yet.

“Loosen up, this is supposed to be fun,” you scolded playfully.

“I am loose,” Din muttered defensively, rolling his shoulders underneath your forearms to prove his statement. You didn’t seem as convinced as he’d hoped you’d be when you rolled your eyes at him. His face was nearly in pain with how much he’d been smiling, and it only got wider at your silent rebuke. He added in a whisper, barely loud enough to be caught by his helmet, “... and I am having fun, really. I’m… I’m ready when you are.”

You pulled your lips between your teeth as you closed your eyes at his voice, the happiness too much for you to contain as you took in a few deep breaths. Din took the opportunity to breathe as well; he found that he kept holding the air in his chest with every little thing you did to him.

With your eyes still closed, you sang the first word and made the first step at the same time, pulling at Din to take the lead. He recognized the song immediately, which wasn’t surprising, but it sounded so… new. The data pad made everything sound tinny, the singer was a deep baritone, the instruments were intense, and the footfalls of the dancers were annoyingly loud. The way you sang this song -- with Paldese lyrics he could sing himself (if he dared), after the thousands of times he listened to it for the baby, but had never bothered to search the meaning of -- was slow, quiet, and romantic. The dance, which was a fast-paced cavort that required a wide open space, was slowed down and achingly intimate to meet the tempo of your voice. 

Din wasn’t a very good dancer, as he expected. He should have taken off his boots, as he’d stepped on your feet a couple times already, and he was missing steps more often than he remembered them, but you didn’t seem to mind. With a wide, mischievous smile on your face, you guided his resting arm to your shoulders and held onto him by his waist, leading the dance fully. Din could have sworn that his cheeks could be used as a cooking skillet when he realized what you did, but you couldn’t see his embarrassment and you didn’t seem to mind or have issues with taking the lead… And if he was being honest with himself, this was fine. More than fine. Fantastic, great, even. But even those words failed to match how he felt. He was lighter than air as you sang to him and led him through the dance, and it was everything he’d ever wanted in all the time that he’d known you.

After what felt like a blissful eternity of yours and Din’s bodies moving together to the soft intonations of your voice, you sang the last note of the song, holding on until your voice faltered and your chest fell with more than just an exhalation of air. He saw it on your face and he felt it too: the slightest tinge of sadness to what was otherwise the best five minutes or so of his life, because those five minutes were over. You two held onto the embrace for as long as you dared, lungs heaving to catch up despite (or because of?) the intimately slow dance you shared. Din was speechless as he searched your eyes for any indication that he should let go, because Maker knows he didn’t want to.

His body decided the answer to that unspoken question when the baby made a noise -- a sudden reminder that there was anything else in this galaxy outside of the warmth of your skin separated from his own by only the leather of his glove -- and he involuntarily jolted away from you towards his cot. The dance over, the trance broken, the moments shared between you and him only another memory for Din to revisit in his head… 

He turned towards the baby in a sense of duty, the only thing keeping him from running to you and pulling you close once more. The child was sleeping, which only proved to make Din feel worse even though it was why you two had danced in the first place. He looked back over at you -- still frozen where he had left you in the middle of the cargo hold -- with a sigh and a tired shrug in his shoulders.

You relaxed at his sigh, slouching forward with a chuckle. “I guess it’s bedtime.”

‘Only if you want it to be,’ he wanted to say.

What Din actually said was much more predictable, succinct. “...Yes.”

You blushed and smiled at him before ascending to the cockpit and your room, but he caught a look in your eye of something else. Like he had said what you expected, but not what you hoped for. 

Din dwelled on that look as he freed himself from his armor. He found his skin underneath to be cold, sweaty, and prickled with goosebumps. Whether it was from you or the climate controls, he couldn’t be sure, but it was definitely not as hot in the Crest as it had been (or as Din hoped it would be)… It was going to be more difficult for him to control his thoughts, wasn’t it? 

When Din finished up, he found himself stuck. The kid was in the center of the cot and there was no way he was going to be able to maneuver himself into a comfortable position without waking the baby up. Din wasn’t about to risk it either, since he was sans your data pad and he didn’t have the emotional energy to ask you to dance with him again just yet. 

He opted to sleep in his pilot’s chair. It was better than sleeping on the floor’s metal grates, and he could darken the visor on his helmet so that the light from the windows wouldn’t keep him awake. And… and it was closer to you, although that was only a tertiary bonus.

Din quietly climbed up the ladder and stalked over to the pilot’s chair, slightly dragging his feet so that his footfalls were muffled by his socks. Your door was still closed, so far so good. He set himself down in the chair slowly so that he could lean into where he knew the creaks and squeals would be. It was a valiant effort on his part to not bother you, but he quickly found that he’d failed when your door slid open, your head and shoulders peeking out from your nest of blankets.

“Mando?”

Din sighed and stood up, not trying to hide the loudness of his damned chair as he released it from his weight. He spoke in a whisper as he walked towards your door, and crouched so that he was at eye level. “Sorry, I didn’t want to move the kid. Or sleep on the floor.”

His tone indicated a thinly veiled attempt to get an invitation from you, although the second it came out of his mouth he wanted to stab himself. Thankfully, you were too sleepy to catch onto his forward advance.

“Ah, well… I never did thank you, for dancing with me,” you murmured shyly, hiding between the blanket and your eyelashes as you spoke. “It was… really nice.”

Having just mentally mutilated himself over his unfiltered words to you, Din paused to think of an honest and dignified response. How was he supposed to be a dignified Mandalorian when he wanted to rip off his helmet and lay down with you, though? How was he supposed to put his feelings to words, when those feelings would surely scare you off? 

Din didn’t notice it at first, but your eyes flitted back and forth between where you thought his eyes were, your shoulders inching up with bold anticipation with each sweep of your irises. You finally couldn’t take it anymore, jumping forward and kissing his helmet where you thought his cheek would be. You quickly slunk back into the safety of your blankets, your face pure red and stretched taut with an unmistakably impish and flirtatious smile.

Din’s first response was to freeze, which paradoxically went against all of his training and expertise as a Mandalorian warrior. Then, he felt the ghost of a touch where your lips would have landed, and the swelling of his chest threatened to bring tears to his eyes. His bare fingertips traced the receding warmth of your kiss on his beskar.

“Use your big boy words, Mando.”

Din tried to form a comprehensible thought that could even vaguely be relevant, but even just words by themselves weren't coming to him.

“It’s okay, big guy,” you cooed, wrapping your hand around the door. You pulled the edges of your mouth apart in a sort of excited terror as you added on, “I like you, too. Good night.”

The sunlight reflected off his helmet, turning the dull yellow of the jungle sun into fractals of shimmering rainbows against your skin as you pulled your door closed. Before your door shut completely, Din made sure you heard him as he softly wished you “Good night.”


End file.
